


Ghost

by pumpkinpeasy



Series: Mirror 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anorexia, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Injury, Bulimia, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s01e20 Dead Man's Blood, Forced, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Past Rape/Non-con, Physical Abuse, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam Winchester Loves Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sibling Incest, Sibling Love, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, True Love, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpeasy/pseuds/pumpkinpeasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam stares into the mirror every night, even though he hates every inch that he sees. He cries alone, deals with himself alone, and copes alone. In spite of his brother being in the bed right beside him, he stays alone and cold to the touch. So it seems that Dean is an angry drunk, following the very footsteps of their disappeared father.</p><p>Memories leak into his dreams at night, of John luring him into his bedroom. Of John creeping in and locking the door. Of John. Dean will never love him, care for him so tender, as he used to. Before he ran away. And Dean said he was being selfish.</p><p>Only are so blind, those who can't see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam stared at himself in the mirror, even though he didn't like what he saw.  
  
All he could see, was pale skin, whipcord-thin muscle, and bones sticking out. He could see his hipbones jutting forward, clavicle fully on-display, bony elbows for show. His face was gaunt, hands like albino spiders, knees sharp and a body so thin he could wrap his arms around himself, and have his hands nearly touch in the back. His shoulderblades stuck out, and Dean had seen every inch of him, over the years.  
  
Sam had a fantasy.  
  
In which, Dean loved him. In which, he'd told him that he was pretty. That he was pretty, and all of him was beautiful in its own way. He'd feel Sam's bony hips and ass, digging into his thighs as Sam sat in his lap, and he'd still have the nerve to say that Sam was something other than ugly. He'd push his hands over an anorexic ribcage, up to sharp shoulder bones and clavicle, and to his thin, Barbie-doll neck, where his hands would rest. Where his hands would cup his face gently, and then he'd bring his lips to Sam's, and tell him this all over again.  
  
He'd tell him how great a hunter and perfect he was.

 _"Yeah, perfect,"_ Sam thought wryly, raking his fingernails over his shoulders, _"Y'know, if you like bulimic, thin-as-a-rail, depressed, anger management issues, and otherwise emotionally and physically unstable. Yep, downright gorgeous."_  
  
Tears spilled over his eyes, running down his cheeks, to drip uselessly onto his chest. He was disgusting, as far as he was concerned. He saw how Dean really felt, and he knew that Dean didn't believe the lie that was _"Sammy's beautiful."  
_

He saw that he was foolish.  
  
And he saw, somewhere in the back of his mind, deep in the cell of his heart, that Dean would never do that. He’d never hold him in his lap again, nor would he kiss him and cuddle him till he fell asleep. Those days were gone. Those days, where De and Sammy would nap together on the couch, curled up in eachother’s arms. When Dean would help him wash his hair, and when Dean would teach him how to do basic math. When Dean would love him.  
  
He saw that nobody could ever really love this violated, disgusting body that he had. This body that his father had raped on a nightly basis for the most of his childhood, and then beaten when he was too old to be appealing. Sam saw it, now, that he was revolting, unspeakable. His father had drilled it into him, and here he was, with his brother, looking for the very bastard who’d told him to shush and take it quietly, like a good little boy.  
  
_‘Be a good boy, Sammy,’_ rang through his mind, making bile creep up his throat, _‘Shh, just like that. There, baby… You’ll- mmngh, oh, be daddy’s good boy, right? Just like this.’  
_

The same bastard who’d touched him and fingered him because he felt like it, and who’d left him unable to walk without pain for days afterward. John, who had molested and raped him, blaming him for what had happened to Mary. But… Sam had never seen how he was to blame, until John had told him.  
  
_‘Yeah, that’s right. Hold your teddy bear-- he’ll make it all better!’_ John had yelled at him, afterwards, when Sam was crying and cuddling his teddy for dear life, _‘What-- are you a fuckin’ girl, Winchester? Listen, you little cumslut - you’re gonna give up that bear, one way or another.’_  
  
He saw the same very disgust in Dean’s eyes. The way he wouldn't look at his face, when they were talking. He'd just look at a grimy spot on the wall of the motel room, or a fleck of dust on the table, rather than look at what he called _"his baby boy."_ Sammy wasn't so oblivious. He saw how Dean would ignore the scratches and bruises on his body, because he couldn't face looking at the places they were at.

He even knew about Dean's girls...  
  
How they were all so pretty and curvy, and how he used to use them to get away. Away from Sam's emaciated body every night. Sam wasn't even that good of a brother. He wanted his big brother so bad, and he needed him so often, and he knew that it pissed Dean off to no end. Sammy, always needing big brother to come help him. He didn’t know _how_ Sam wanted him, though. He didn’t know that Sam loved him, to the ends of the earth and back again, from Heaven to Hell, from happiness and family to pain and suffering.  
  
Sam loved him.  
  
Sam sobbed quietly, trying not to wake up Dean, as he stared into the filthy motel bathroom mirror. Sam could barely look at himself in that thing. He was crying, as he touched himself and looked at his body. It was gross, humiliating, but Hell he deserved it. For going along with a lie, and letting Dean try to fix him, when he didn't deserve to be fixed.  
  
Sam picked up the little razorblade from the edge of the sink, and gritted his teeth, trying not to look at the object of his affection. He just dug the edge of the blade into his left wrist, and dragged it upward towards his palm, watching the skin split and bleed, scarlet dripping down his arm. Blood, then more blood when a second cut was made, raking the skin apart, new scars over old ones that had been built on for years. Red liquid dripped down his arm in rivulets, as he took the razorblade into his trembling left hand, crying as he did the same to his right arm, for some good, equal measure.  
  
He was barely able to hold the blade, his left hand was shaking so badly, but the skin split there, too. It was sliced open, blood running down his right arm, this time, falling from the cuts, _useless._  
  
"Sammy?" Dean called, banging on the bathroom door. “Sam, you in there?”  
  
“Yeah…” he returned weakly, not able to help the watery crack in his voice, “Yeah, I’m coming out, just hold on.”  
  
“No, it’s okay. I just wanted to know if you were alright.” Dean said softly, “You’ve been in there for, like, half an hour.”  
  
“Yeah- I know, I’m sorry.” he sniveled, tears slipping from his eyes, Sam just about ready to drown in them.  
  
“‘s alright, Sammy.” Dean chuckled, “I’m not mad, just… wondering.”  
  
He was pissed. Pissed and angry and fraught with sadness, and he wasn’t ready to have any conversation with Dean. He wasn’t ready for anything; not a physical relationship, or an emotional one, or having someone help him. He just wasn’t ready. Through all the uncontrolled trembling, the searing pain in his arms, Sam heard a sigh come from behind the door, and he knew that Dean was lingering.  
  
“You still there?” he snapped, grabbing his black rag from the floor.  
  
“Okay, I’m leaving-- _Sorry.”_ Dean snapped back, sending a horrible chill down Sammy’s spine. The anger and rejection in Dean’s voice was enough to send a new wave of tears over him.  
  
Gingerly, he wiped the blood from his arms, washing it down the filthy sink. He hated his brother for what he was doing with those girls, but it was his fault. He was the reason Dean was drifting away in the first place. He was disgusting and bony, and he couldn’t gain any weight whatsoever. Through tears and broken sobs, he remembered when he’d first found comfort in the razorblade, when he was eighteen.  
  
When he’d first been rejected by his brother, for wanting to go to school. To have a life with a girl who liked him. That was when he’d started cutting himself. Jess knew. She’d known and she’d tried to get him help, and she’d tried to help him herself, all the time. Just another way he’d let her down, too. That was his last coherent thought, before turning the blade on his chest.  
  
It was angrily dug into his collarbone, and dragged down, almost zippering open the flesh of his chest, also atop old scars. Sam sliced at his chest, right over his heart, over and over, like he was trying to hack at the organ itself. He raked it madly over his breast, panting, crying, trying to breathe, but just…  
  
He broke. Sam couldn’t handle it anymore. He dropped the blade into the sink, bloody hands gripping the porcelain  for dear life, blood running freely from his wrists, till he stopped it. He was starting to feel lightheaded, when he finally grabbed the black rags he used, and tied them around his wrists tight enough to conserve blood.  
  
Sam collapsed next to the sink, temple resting against the basin as he tried to breathe and tried to forgive himself for doing this. This. Believing that this is the pain that he deserved, in requite for what he’d done, let himself turn into. This stomach-turning, abhorrent thing that Dean hated so much, he couldn’t stand to kiss him. He couldn’t take notice of the cuts and bruises all over. He couldn’t hold Sammy and say he was sorry, and let Sam cry into his shoulder, and just have the warmth and happiness it was to have someone he loved. He couldn’t take a hint.  
  
And at the same time, Sam had tried to convince himself that this wasn’t for attention.  
  
It wasn’t about attention, or Sam’s basic human need for it, or the need for food, or to make himself throw up every day. He wasn’t doing this for attention… In his mind, this somehow made him more acceptable. In his distorted, perverted labyrinth of broken, warped mirrors and bloodstained razorblades, this was what he needed to do. He’d been doing it for nearly five years, and this was absolutely what would make it better.  
  
Here, he was left to clean himself and scrub the sink of blood, as fast as he could.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Sam crawled into the second bed, gingerly levering himself down onto the mattress, having bandaged his deepest cuts. He knew Dean would be furious if he ever found out about this, but they'd been on the road for nearly a year together, and he hadn't asked questions, yet. He hadn't found out, yet.  
  
Sam was left to cuddle up on his own, with that teddy bear he'd smuggled into his duffel. He was left to cradle it against his chest, the poor, patchy and raggedy, bloodstained thing, and hold it to his heart. He held the plaything lightly to himself, just above the place he’d been slicing and hacking at not an hour earlier, the fur still soft, after all these years. Still soft against his hands and his neck, the only comfort that was here for him. Sammy was left to silently cry himself to sleep, shoulders painfully jerking with each wracking sob. Cries so sharp and breathless that Dean would never hear them.  
  
Sam just held his teddy bear close, just begging for it to all be over when he woke up. He was just begging for God to let something happen to him, while he was asleep, being the scared, mousey little bitch that he was, he'd probably run from it if he were awake.  
  
With all that he'd done to make himself look better, to make himself possibly a little more alluring to Dean. Everything he'd been putting himself through, on his own, for years, _"You're a fucking idiot, Sam."_ was what he thought to himself.  
  
_"You're stupid, for this."_  
  
_"You're a whore."_  
  
_"You're perverted, you're disturbed, you're unhealthy, you're sick and kinky and disgusting."_  
  
_"And Dean's never going to want you."_

Sam realised, a long time ago, that Dean would kill him if he found out about this. He'd beat him senseless and tell him all of these things, because they were true. And he knew he'd still love Dean, and continue his futile attempts to fix himself.  
  
There, on that thought, Sam would fall asleep, and dream about something better.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
It was a few days later, and Sam was running towards the motel room, bolting from the Impala.  
  
_"Sam!"_ Dean yelled, anger and hatred in his voice. _"Sam, get your ass over here!"_  
  
"Dean, no! I'm sorry-- Dean, you’re _drunk!"_ he'd cried back at him, scrambling and slamming into the door. "Ow! Oh - fuck..."  
  
Drunk or not, Dean grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him up, punching him in the face, then again, and again, landing punch after punch into Sam's body. Sam yelled and cried out, Dean grunting, punching squarely in his gut, his face, Sam falling to his knees when something cracked.  
  
Expecting Sam to fight back, he kept on.  
  
"Dammit, I _told you!"_ Dean barked, voice hoarse and wet, "I told you-- never, _never_ fucking do that, or - I'll-- beat it out of you."  
  
"Dean, I'm sorry..." he wept, Dean digging his fingernails into Sam's shoulders, dragging him back to his feet. "I'm sorry-- Dean, I'm sorry!"  
  
Dean punched him hard in the face, dark bruises taking over his left side, blood streaming from his nose, past babyish lips, down his chin.  
  
"Fuckin' idiot, you could've _died!"_

Sam tried to swing a punch in Dean's direction, but his brother grabbed his right arm and wrenched it back with a loud snap.  
  
Sam screamed, Dean kicking him in the leg, and Sam dropped to the ground crying and whimpering out Dean's name. He was in tears, hardly able to keep himself on all fours-- or three, as his right arm was broken, now. Dean was just about to kick him in the stomach, for the sake of brotherly affection, when he heard what Sam was babbling about.  
  
"Dean, please... Dean-- no..." he was sobbing so hard it was difficult to make out the words, "No! Dean, stop it-- don't hurt me anymore, _please!"_  
  
Something snapped, inside Dean, that broke him out of his blind rage for Sam's stupidity. Any anger vanished from his body, replaced with a desperate instinct and need to help Sammy.  
  
"Dean, _Dean, please,_ I'm so sorry..." Sam kept crying, keeping submissive on his hands and knees, _"Please,_ I'll be good, _I’ll be good,_ be your good boy..."  
  
"Sam, what's the matter with you?" Dean slurred, trying to drag Sam up into a sitting position, but the kid was relentless.  
  
He wouldn’t sit up; he wouldn’t stop sobbing, and clinging to himself so hard he was sure Sam’s fingers would leave marks on the kid’s body. Dean couldn’t see what there was to cry about; all he could see was blurred, as his head was throbbing, almost as badly as his arms and legs. Sam was rocking backwards and forwards, hard and fast, his shoulders spasming with each wracking sob.  
  
“Fine, stay there…” he grumbled, giving Sam a little push onto his side.  “See if I care.”  
  
Once Dean did, Sam was left outside the motel room, to hear the door slam shut with a loud slap of wood. He stayed there, trembling so violently that he couldn’t push himself into a sitting position, but that didn’t matter. He’d sleep out here, if he had to.  
  
Here, Sam was left to cry, and take care of himself.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
The freezing night air hit Sam's wounds like a slap to the face.  
  
He groaned, spluttering over a mouthful of blood, spitting it onto the sidewalk. He was throbbing, his body was throbbing, levels of aches and pains changing accordingly over parts that had been bruised, parts that had been cut, punched, kicked, slapped, or in some cases, broken.  
  
From the blood tracks on his face, and the redness still oozing from his nostrils, his nose was definitely broken. Though, it was difficult to tell the pain apart. Trying to lift himself up, one-armed at the moment, proved horrendous and difficult. It was a good fifteen minutes before Sam forced himself to pick his body up, even if into a pathetic position like sitting on his knees.  
  
Little beams of sunlight were streaming through his vision, so it had to be near morning. He couldn't control the poignant whimpers, soft cryings-out that crept up his throat. He touched his right arm and felt a dagger of pain searing upwards, to his shoulder. A fresh wave of tears was sent over Sam, remembering who had done this to him.  
  
He curled up into a tight ball, just trying to breathe, as he let out what remaining tears there were. Sam inched backward, bracing himself against the hard wall, the bricks scratchy and cold to his back. He held one matchstick arm flush to his chest, the other wrapped around two overly-thin legs. Sam stared through the sizeable gap between his thighs at the filthy concrete, just catching his breath before he went inside.  
  
He knew that there was more to this. More than just hating himself, and simply being attacked by his pissed off, blackout-drunk brother. And he knew that there was more than this, to Dean's drinking problem, though this was the first time he'd become violent, like this. Sure, sometimes he'd cuss Sam out for being dumb, and he was okay with that. But this was the beginning of something, and Sam didn't think he'd want to see it develop further.  
  
He spent another good half-hour sitting there, feeling the bitter cold air on his skin, watching the sun rise slowly. It was only when other people started turning their lights on inside their rooms, that Sam forced himself to move his ass.  
  
Sam gritted his teeth, dragging himself upward by the doorknob to their room. He groaned, feeling the horrible aches, pains, like pins and knives in his body. Even through the pain, he twisted the doorknob, and found that Dean was kind enough to leave it unlocked for him. He whimpered, pushing the door open with his good arm, and hurrying inside. Sam rounded the transparent wall and saw Dean, sleeping, passed out atop the covers of one of the beds.  
  
He sniveled quietly, and rushed into the bathroom, like he always did, albeit much more hazy and confused, this time. Sam cleaned up his face, before grabbing one of his fake IDs, and running from the motel.  
  
He wanted to stay -- Hell, he did. He loved his brother more than anything, and he wasn't giving up on his idol. His all and his beauty. And yet, he was getting on a bus to the hospital, because of the person he adored. Sam tried to ignore the fierce glares and skeptical glances people were giving him, as they rode in the direction of the hospital.  
  
The bus screeched to a halt, allowing others aboard. Sam cringed violently, as one climbed inside, completely abrasive in nature, and already very loud. He paid his rider's fee, and started walking.  
  
"My fellow Americans, Jesus is with you!" he announced, Sam shivering as he started ducking into people's seats and speaking to them. "He wants to see you succeed! That's why, he's put me here, to help you. To bring to you, the word of God."  
  
"Zeke, find another bus, or _tone it down!"_ the driver yelled at him, as they started the bus again.  
  
"Right, right-- sorry, sorry." he, Zeke, murmured.  
  
Sam glanced up, and saw the man walking towards the back. He was fair-skinned and very handsome, with thick locks of milk-chocolate hair. Zeke came to the back, Sam cringing hard as he approached him with God's word.  
  
"Here." he announced softly, to those around them, "Here, we've got a true example of one who needs God's word."  
  
Sam sniveled and turned away, as Zeke touched his hair lightly.  
  
"The allure of alcohol and drunkenness can be strong, and to those who burn, it clearly took a toll." he said, eerily like a teacher before their students. "What's driven you to such ends?"  
  
"I-I... I wasn't, driven." Sam mumbled, a fine tremor shaking his person. "Just... hurt."  
  
"Oh..." Zeke murmured, fingers ghosting over harsh bruises, and bloodstains that Sam couldn't scrub off. "What happened to you?"  
  
Sam swallowed hard, a couple of free tears tracking down his cheeks.  
  
"My brother..." he choked out, Zeke's overly-religious tone softening visibly. "Just... need a ride. Hospital."  
  
"What did your brother do?" he asked quietly, much gentler than before. Sam sniveled, wiping at his eyes and nose with his good hand.  
  
"He was angry."  
  
There, they left for the hospital, hopefully where Sam could be safely checked out.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
Dean stirred awake on the couch, the hangover punching him in the gut and the head.  
  
He groaned, and quickly got up, running and making it to the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet. His head was pounding, swimming with thoughts, shades of pain and throbbing. Dean didn't remember anything, from last night, and only fragments of the day before. He wracked his brains, trying to get a sliver of what had happened.  
  
Once he did, he was suddenly, completely heartbroken.  
  
Sam was in horrible pain, bloodied and bruised, _abused,_ tears running down his face as he cried his eyes out. He was going on about being good, being a good boy, not disobeying anymore, he was going to be good, and... Dean tried to take him into his arms, but Sam was trembling so hellishly, the grisly, macabre noises Sam was making, enough to send waves of regret and guilt over Dean.  
  
Red and purple bruises were taking form on his face, some so vividly in the shapes of knuckles that Dean wished he could take it all back. Sam wouldn't stop shaking, practically vibrating and sobbing, begging for Dean not to hurt him.  
  
Dean couldn’t tell if this was some weird-ass alcohol-induced dream, or if it had actually happened.  
  
Dean hadn’t seen Sam anymore; he’d seen Sammy. He didn't see the strong, great hunter that he'd thought was present when he'd attacked him. Dean didn't see the hunter he'd expected to fight back in the brawl, or the muscled, sculpted brother he'd known. He only saw a small, rawboned, heartbroken child, who was used and abused and beaten to a pulp.  
  
“Sam?” Dean called out, getting to the bathroom door, “Sammy!”  
  
No answer.  
  
Sam had been sobbing so desperately, he was close on the edge of hyperventilation. Dean just wanted to cradle the wrecked, broken thing in his arms, even though he was the one who’d done that.  
  
If he was the one who’d done that... Dean didn't know what to do with himself; all he knew was that he needed to find him, and get Sammy to a hospital.  
  
Here, he left to help Sam.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Does Sam have a history of self-harm?" Tessa asked.  
  
This caught Dean where he least expected it. The two of them gathered closer, near the door of Sam's hospital room, where he was resting. People bustled past, some on gurneys, others in white coats. Dean had been lucky enough to actually find his baby brother. He’d been lucky to find him, alive.  
  
"I-I'm sorry..." he half-chuckled, "What?"  
  
"Sam. We found cuts, on his wrists, that look like he had made them himself. Similar ones on his chest." she explained, showing him colour photographs of Sam's wounded, emaciated body. "They're layered, as if they've been built upon, for years. Your cousin... He’s not healthy, Mr. Singer."  
  
"Wh-What's wrong with him?"  
  
"Well, on top of the cutting... Sam is extremely underweight for someone his size." Tessa remarked, "So, of course he's got serious vitamin deficiencies, probably contributed unto by the blood loss and contusions to his body."  
  
"O-Okay..." Dean said stiffly, swallowing hard. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking at the floor.  
  
"And, uhm... Mr. Singer, I do need to speak with you about something else, in private, if that's alright." she said, and Dean nodded quickly.  
  
She took them into an office, which nobody else was using. Dean's body was thrumming with anxiety, and the fear that something might be irreversibly wrong with Sammy... his Sammy. Tessa swept a lock of jet-black hair from her face, and looked at Dean seriously.  
  
"Dean, I cannot emphasise, exactly how worried I am for your cousin." she said, "When the doctors were trying to take his pants off, he started screaming and fighting back; it’s why he’s under sedation. So, here... Does he have a history of sexual abuse?"  
  
Dean's heart stopped.  
  
"What?"  
  
Tessa lowered her eyes to her clipboard, then straightened up, trying to deal with this in the most professional manner possible.  
  
"While we were examining Sam for any other wounds, we found, in the X-rays, that Sam had some scarring, in... _Near_ _genitalia."_ she substituted. "Our only conclusion, with those kinds of scars, is that he was raped, likely more than once. If you know of anyone who could have done that, please..."  
  
"N-No... No one." he breathed.  
  
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sammy, abused, by someone he didn't even know. He couldn't imagine... couldn't think, of why Sam wouldn't say anything. He could barely take in half of this, all at once. This was an earth-shattering sort of thing for him, especially when he'd stupidly thought Sam was perfectly healthy.  
  
“Well… Dean,” Tessa sighed, “I think it’s time we talk about medication.”  
  
  
Dean was standing over Sam's bed.  
  
Watching over him, his baby brother, as he was innocently dozing in the hospital bed. He stood at Sam's bedside, tears in his eyes, as he raked his gaze over Sam's poor, pathetic form.  
  
Sammy was wrecked, bruised and passed out. His right arm was in a splint, holding the bones in place for them to heal. Sam's gentle, upturned-nose was broken, a white band over the bridge to keep it in place, as well. He'd needed stitches, here and there, and they'd bandaged Sam's wrists. Dean knew that, at least on some level, this was all his fault.  
  
Dean pulled out the teddy bear from his jacket. The small, ratty old thing that had been foraged from the fire in Lawrence.  
  
Sam's only kept item from the disaster, the twentysomething-years-old bear had lost most of its caramel-coloured fur, showing mostly the burlap skin, and was haphazardly stitched into place over and over. Missing patches and eyes acted as the perfect metaphor for the harrowing effects of being loved a little too much. As they say, it’s a thin line between love and hate.  
  
Dean quietly moved forward and placed the tired old teddy under Sam's left arm, which draped around it delicately. He couldn't help but to understand what Sam went through, but at the same time, Dean hadn't kept a toy. He'd managed to move away from it, but in some twisted way, in Sammy's distorted mind, this token of pain and suffering would help himself heal.  
  
He'd heard what Tessa had said.  
  
That Sam was damaged, from a young age. And what Dean had always known as 'Sammy' wasn't Sammy at all. It was a ruined, tormented, molested version of what Sammy would have become, had he been left untouched. The thought that this wasn't really Sam, had never gotten to grow into being Sam, absolutely destroyed him. He thought he'd been good at protecting him, at saving his baby boy and keeping him safe, but...  
  
Here, he'd stay with Sam, till his baby brother was let out of the hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

_Three weeks later_  
  
"Sammy, you here, kiddo?" Dean called softly into the motel room.  
  
It was dully-coloured and empty, like usual, but there was a certain lack of Sammy that concerned him. He looked around, setting his duffel on the table. Sam came out of the bathroom, looking pale as a ghost and sickly akin to a cancer patient, as far as appearances went.  
  
"Hey, dimples." Dean tried, with a half-smile, but Sam gave the smallest wave, and perched on the edge of the couch.  
  
It broke Dean's heart a thousand times over, to see Sammy like this. Acting, or thinking, as if he were an unwanted guest in a stranger's home, when they were the closest brothers they could have been, and they had been sharing a bed for years. Sharing one, because it was safer, and it made Sammy feel safe. Or at least it had, until a few weeks ago.  
  
"Hey, De." Sam tried, voice hoarse like sandpaper, as if he'd been crying again.  
  
"I, uh, found us something, close." he said, "This guy, Daniel Elkins, went missing about a week ago. No body, no nothin'. Just... poof."  
  
"Mmkay." Sam hummed, nodding, "Think we should check it out?"  
  
"Yeah... Sammy, are you still feeling sick?" he asked softly.  
  
"No." Sam said, shaking his head quickly, but he sure as hell looked sick.  
  
His skin was paper-white, sweaty, hair tangled and mussed. He was a wreck, since Dean had hurt him. Oh, he didn't know how much.  
  
He didn't know, would never know, how Dean had vaporised his wants, his longing for his big brother. And Sam didn't understand it. They had been there, the feelings, since he was a tot, and after one fight, they were gone. He didn't understand. But more so, he didn't get why he felt so crushed, so betrayed on a personal level, for what Dean did to him, when it wasn't De's fault.  
  
But, whatever Dean chose, they would do it. It was time for them to get on the road, and do what they needed to do.  
  
There, they left for Manning, Colorado, and Daniel Elkins.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Hmm. Looks like the maid didn't come today." Dean remarked, as they traipsed into Elkins’ cabin.  
  
"Hey, there's salt over here." Sam called, "Right beside the door."  
  
"You mean protection against demons salt, or _'oops, I spilt the popcorn'_ salt?" Dean asked, and picked up Elkins' journal from the desk, flicking through it almost absentmindedly.  
  
"It's clearly a ring." Sam returned, following Dean into the wrecked library. "You think this guy, Elkins, was a player?"  
  
"Definitely..." Dean murmured, Sam coming up behind him, glancing around at various tchotchkes on the shelves that weren't ruined. It was an old, weathered place, torn apart by crime and the wrestlings of death and murder. Things were smashed, torn through, and tossed aside.  
  
Then, he saw the journal Dean was holding, "That looks a helluva lot like Dad's."  
  
"Yep, except this dates back to the _60's..."_ Dean said quietly, taking the journal and tucking it into his jacket.  
  
_"Whatever_ attacked him, it looks like there was more than one." Sam commented, wandering about, looking at the crime scene.  
  
"Looks like he put up a helluva fight, too." Dean said, and Sam nodded.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The two of them looked around the room, picking up books and torn items, belongings to Elkins. Then, Dean tapped Sammy's hand, and pointed to the floor, as he crouched down.  
  
"You got something?" Sam asked, following.  
  
"I dunno. Some scratches on the floor." Dean murmured, tracing them with his fingertips, as he tried to make out what they said.  
  
"Death throes, maybe?" Sam asked, but Dean shrugged, as he was rubbing pencil lead over the scratches, marking them into the paper.  
  
"Yeah, maybe..." he peeled up the paper, blood on the back, "Or maybe a message."  
  
"Three letters, six digits." Sam murmured quietly, his good hand resting on Dean's shoulder. "The location and combination of a post office box. It's a mail drop."  
  
"Yeah. Just the way Dad does it." his brother returned, reaching up and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. Sam’s heart was thundering in his chest, as Dean’s fingers lingered just a bit longer than they had to.  
  
There, they would leave to investigate.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
" _'J.W.'_ You think?" Sam asked, once they were inside the Impala. Dean was by his side, holding the letter from the mail box drop. They were in the front seat, Dean shrugging at Sam's query.

"I dunno." he murmured, "Should we open it?"  
  
There was a knock against Dean's window - Dean gasped, reared back, automatically raising his arm, fist clenched, when he saw who it was.  
  
"Dad?" he exclaimed, and Sam made a terrified noise in the back of his throat, that almost scared Dean.  
  
Sammy squirmed away, as John climbed into the backseat, just behind him, nearly crawling onto the floor of the front seat. His body was sent into a wave of trembles and he couldn't breathe, just seeing that man again, and just after...  
  
"Dad, what are you doing here? Are you alright?" Dean asked urgently, almost unconcerned with Sam's squirming, at the moment. He was just so overtaken by excitement, that he didn't see it.  
  
"Yeah, I'm okay. I read the news about Daniel..." John said gruffly, "I got here as fast as I could. I saw you two at his place."  
  
John looked from Dean, to Sam, his eyes raking hungrily over Sam's pathetically meagre form, his healing bruises and cuts, broken nose, then down to his splint.  
  
"What happened to your arm, Sammy?" John asked, his falsely compassionate tone making bile begin to slither up his throat.  
  
Dean glanced nervously from John to Sam.  
  
"I-I, uh... I was hunting." Sam hiccupped, his heart in his mouth, so to speak. Sam was chilled to the bone, simply being so close to his father. "Th-This ghost. He, uh-- I got smashed against a wall."  
  
"Yeah, well..." John shrugged, "Just be good, and it'll get better."  
  
Sam cringed, Dean starting to take notice of his desperation to leave, to be anywhere but here, and to please, just please... please let him get away from John. Sammy swallowed hard, as the conversation went on, trudged through, and they decided on going back to the motel, to discuss things.  
  
  
Dean noticed everything, from then on in.  
  
He noticed how Sam would scurry away from John, and into the motel, and immediately excuse himself to the bathroom like he was going to vomit. Dean noticed how John smirked at his fright, and was okay with his baby getting hurt, or feeling hurt.  
  
Dean, however was not. He most certainly was not okay, with his baby getting hurt. Even with what he'd done, he'd gone to church- gone to God, and told him that he would never, never again, do that to Sammy. That he'd never hurt him that way, ever, and he wouldn't allow anyone else to do so.  
  
Dean waited for Sammy to come out, and he caught him in his arms when he did. Sam wrapped his good arm around Dean's shoulder tight, holding onto him, not able to even look his abuser in the face. Everything fell into place, for Dean, right then and there. Sam's fear, his near breakdown in the car, and John's satisfaction when he'd seen it. What Tessa had said, about Sam being molested and raped. He held Sammy close, letting Sam cling to him, not rejecting it anymore. He wasn't fighting it, anymore. Not for another minute.  
  
"Hey, shh..." Dean hushed, as John walked over.  
  
"What's going on?" John asked.  
  
Dean felt his baby go completely still against his chest, burrowed into his neck. He felt Sammy's body shaken by a fine tremor, as John grew closer to the two of them. Dean didn't care, anymore. He couldn't keep this a lie and a secret. He turned to face his father, who was glaring daggers at his boys.  
  
"Dean, leave your brother to settle himself."  
  
"Dad..." Dean murmured, and he heard Sam hiccup poignantly from the corner. He heard Sammy's breath shaking, hitching, on the way out. "Dad...?" Dean asked, tears in his eyes, "Tell me that you didn't do this."  
  
"Do _what,_ son?" John asked incredulously.

"Dammit, you know what..." Dean breathed, voice trembling as he shielded Sammy for the umpteenth time. Shielded the small, scrawny boy he’d come to protect and to love. “Dad, did you hurt him?”  
  
"No! I haven't _touched_ him, Dean." John said, flabbergasted at this. "What is this about?"

 _"Sam._ That's what this is about-- this is about Sammy." Dean said, Sam shivering at the sheer amount of control and coolness in his voice. "I am _not_ gonna let you hurt him again."  
  
"Dean, you listen to me, _now--"_  
  
"No." Dean said.

John shook his head, expression almost disgusted with his children. Then, he looked over Dean's shoulder, at the cowering, terrified Sammy behind him, scarred and shivering in the shadow of Dean's righteous protection. John's eyes were dark, glaring at Sammy, but he wasn't able to breach Dean's strong will and unmitigated devotion to his Sammy. John’s anger could never, would never hurt him again.  
  
"You. You _loved_ it, you cumslut." John spat, and Dean stiffened up, arms out, as if that would protect Sammy more. “You remember how you were all out on the bed, every night, telling me you wanted me.”  
  
"You _did_ hurt him." Dean breathed, voice tense with fury.  
  
"And you did _this."_ John said, gesturing to Sam. "I checked out the hospital, and around the city for anything about spirits-- He didn't get hurt during a damn _hunt!"_  
  
_"At least I didn't molest him!"_ Dean screamed, charging forward and barreling headfirst into his father, the two of them toppling into the coffee table. The weak wood smashed beneath them, sending them both to the floor, clawing and punching at eachother, Sam crying out from the corner. "Sammy, run!" Dean shouted, and Sam obeyed him.  
  
Sam heard John calling after him and yelling at him as he ran out the door, but he heard Dean’s voice over his. He was telling Sam to run, and to get far away from John. Sam kept running, through the dead of night, in silent, empty streets, legs pinioning him forward, seemingly of their own volition. He was sprinting, by the end of it, and he kept running, even when he heard footsteps chasing in his wake.  
  
He would glance over his shoulder, dashing down the sidewalk. Faster, faster, until he crashed into something and felt a shooting pain in his face.  
  
Sam cried out, whimpering as he backed away from the telephone pole, stunted and bleeding from the nose again. He stumbled backward, before regaining his footing and running as fast as he possibly could. Sam saw a ratty, unused shed, and bolted for it. It was nothing more than planks of wood enclosed by rusty sheet-metal, but it would keep him hidden. He forced himself inside, and dragged the door shut.  
  
He was trying, trying so hard to keep himself intact, at least for now. He choked and cried, blood dripping from his nose, where he’d likely just broken it again, against the telephone pole.  
  
Sam couldn’t deal with this, anymore.  
  
He couldn’t handle it. It was too much, for someone like him. He wasn’t cut out for any of this, and he couldn’t even defend himself from his own father and brother. He’d nearly been beaten to death, in both cases. He wasn’t able, never able, to do anything for himself; he’d been told he was an abomination and a freak, a cumslut, a whore and a bitch, and how long had it taken him to get the message?  
  
Sam dug around frantically in his pocket, ignoring the heart thundering against the precious ivories of his breastbone, the overwhelming, drastic adrenalin in his veins. He yanked out his switchblade, and flicked it open. The sharpened metal blade was shining, intimidating and so familiar, somehow. Like an old friend coming for one last visit.  
  
He held the cold steel to the tender hollow of his neck, sniveling so hard that he wouldn’t get a clear drag across the flesh. Hell if he couldn’t even kill himself right. That’s a good fit with the rest of his life, isn’t it? Sam cried out as he sliced through the tendons in his throat, and regretted it a second later.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean was calling. “Sammy!”  
  
_"Dean?"_ Sam mouthed desperately. Everything was suddenly getting hazy, and Sam collapsed onto his side, the clatter enough to capture Dean’s attention.  
  
He dragged open the door, and scrambled inside.

"Oh, God-- _Sammy!_ Shh, shh..." he hushed, pulling Sam closer, and wrapping arms around him. "Hey… It's okay. Just-- Sammy, c'mere."  
  
Sam could barely see, through the pain and the haze of shock, but if he could… If he could, he would have seen Dean, completely destroyed, just holding his baby in his arms and trying to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t, at this point. Only when Sam's trembles got worse, did Dean dare to speak again.  
  
“Sammy, hey… Babe, I’ve got you.” he choked, crying almost silently. “I’ve got you-- I promise.”  
  
_"I just..."_ Sam thought, and he hiccupped, his good hand clinging to Dean's neck like his life depended on it. He rested against Dean, sniveling, blood pouring from his throat, where he’d cut it. _"I thought you didn't love me anymore."_

Sam suddenly went still in his arms, just miniscule, stuttering breaths signifying that his baby brother was still alive. More out of a spasm, than anything else, Sam’s hand clamped onto Dean’s wrist, and he suddenly stopped clutching at his baby brother’s throat. Sammy turned up to him, eyes big and wide, tears streaking his face, wetting his cheeks and bringing out the bruises and cuts all over him.  
  
"Sammy, I'm so sorry-- I'm so fucking sorry..." he said, keeping him tight in his arms, as he nuzzled into Sam's hair. "I never meant to, and I'm sorry..."  
  
"I love you.." Dean whispered, noses touching now, as he kept his hands clamped over Sam’s bleeding throat. Tears dripped from hazel gemstones, and from emeralds, landing on pale cheeks. "I love you-- I love you, so much--”  
  
Sam just held onto him, a beautiful rush of affection and warmth in his heart. Dean wiped at the blood still tracking down Sammy's chin, the metal and wood shed creaking as they stayed together.  
  
He held Sam flush to himself, in the dark, creepy shed, flicking a spider off of Sam's head. He ran his fingers through Sammy's dirty, tangled locks; even the bangs on his forehead were a mess. Sam was trembling, just taking in little whispers of breath, as Dean kept him close, clear of the shadows and fear that they'd been running from.  
  
And Sam didn’t cry when sleep turned him still and cold. He just fogged over, like a windowpane in the spring.  
  
There, maybe Sam could be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and all your comments. Please tell me what you thought :)


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